Lost Connections
by House Calls
Summary: What if a certain doctor was the real connection between the survivors of Oceanic Flight 815? A Lost crossover. Updated June 6, 2006.
1. Chapter 1

**Lost Connections**

**Disclaimer:** _House, Lost_ and all related to these TV shows do not belong to me. This is being done purely for non-profit entertainment. Any characters and story lines I make up are mine, though. Just so you know.

White. All Dr. Gregory House saw was white – white walls, white floors, white doors – nothing to let him know where he was in St. Sebastian's Hospital. Stupid lecture he grumbled silently, the steady thump of his cane setting the tempo of his thoughts. Stupid Cuddy for making him give the lecture. Stupid Wilson for talking to Cuddy and --

"Hey, watch where you're going buddy."

House stopped, turning to look over his shoulder at the man who had nearly knocked him over. "Yeah, _buddy,_" he said, "try not to knock over a cripple." The man stopped in his tracks and swiveled around so he was facing House.

"I'm sorry," he said, his forehead creased in a frown, "I didn't see you or you didn't see me – it doesn't really matter. Truth is you nearly _tripped_ me with your cane. You should be more careful."

"Or you're going to do what, call my dad so he can ground me? I know, I know – the graying hair throws everybody off. Even my own mother." House gave the man a quick once-over, taking in the shadowed jaw, the circles under his eyes and the way he kept rubbing his upper left arm. "Hey, what's the matter with your arm?" he asked, pointing with his cane at the appendage.

The man, whose ID tag identified him as a hospital employee by the name of Dr. Jack Sheppard, dropped his right hand. "Uh, nothing much. Just a bit sore . . ." His voice trailed off as he looked more closely at House. "Don't I know you from somewhere?"

House rested his cane in front of him with both his hands atop the handle. "Depends – ever been to Jersey?" Sheppard shook his head, his expression thoughtful as he began rubbing his arm again.

"No, but . . . wait – you're Dr. Gregory House. Are you here for the diagnostics lecture?"

"I gave the lecture," House replied, "and now this place has developed some sort of freakish fourth dimension that won't let me leave."

"Ah," was all Sheppard said, still continuing the circular motions on his arm.

"Look," House said, finding himself exasperated by the continuous motion, "I obviously am not in a hurry to get anywhere, so how about we go into the empty room behind you and I take a look at your arm?"

Sheppard looked about ready to protest, but then appeared to decide against it. With a curt nod of his head, he turned into the aforementioned room, hopping easily up onto the empty bed as House came in behind him. House rested his cane against the side table while the younger man shrugged off his lab coat. Rolling up the sleeve of his scrub shirt Sheppard revealed a black, Chinese-themed tattoo on his upper arm. House didn't even have to feel the area to know it was infected – the areas not marked with the dark ink were red and the whole area was swollen. But he did anyway, glancing at Sheppard as he let out a small hiss.

"You really should have picked a place that uses clean needles."

Sheppard nodded his head. "Yeah, well . . ."

"You know what to do," House said, grabbing his cane before taking a half-step back. "So, did it make you forget?" he added as Sheppard eased back into his lab coat.

"Forget what?" he asked, getting off the bed.

"Betty, Sue, Mary – whatever the name was of the woman that broke your heart. Men such as yourself generally only do such stupid things to forget a woman or because they're drunk, and you don't look like the drinking type." House flexed the fingers on his left hand. "So, did yours work?"

Jack Sheppard shook his head, a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. "You really are a son of a --"

"And you really need to quit trying to fix people. Though on second thought, when you're ready to enter the dating pool again I know someone who would be per--"

The startled 'oh' of the nurse who had just stepped into the room cut House off. "I'm sorry," the woman said, "I didn't know --" Sheppard held up his hand.

"It's okay – Dr. House here was just giving me a quick consult." Sheppard turned to House. "Thank you for your help. As for the rest, well . . ." he rubbed the back of his neck while his expression filled in the blanks.

"Yeah," House said, making his way out of the room. He stopped to look at the nurse. Her name was Betty. Heh -- Nurse Betty. "Where is the main reception area?" he asked, thumping his cane to the rhythm in his head. "I'm lost and tired of walking around aimlessly."


	2. Chapter 2

**House – The Lost Series**

**Disclaimer: **Still don't own anything related to _House_ or _Lost_. Again, the storyline and any new characters are mine. So hands off. ;-)

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He hated the children running around his feet; the banal chit-chat of the people occupying the table just behind him and the coffee which tasted like it was burnt, even after three packets of sugar. But she was with him and that was all that mattered.

With a small sigh, Dr. Gregory House flipped to table of contents of his newly acquired _Maxim_ magazine so he could catch up with Carmen Electra. He had just finished reading a rather, um, interesting quote when he caught sight of someone stopping by the unoccupied chair beside him.

"Hey, Gramps, this seat taken?" a man drawled.

Setting down his paper coffee cup on the small round table in front of him, House folded back the top half of his magazine before leaning back in the dark brown plush chair. The man standing beside him was younger – probably close in age to Wilson – and of average height with a lanky frame. His blond hair (dyed, dark roots were showing) was well-styled, in contrast to his scruffy jeans and denim jacket. He looked as willing to have a conversation as House did.

Good.

"Well, sonny, if you were her --" House held up his magazine, pointing at the full-page picture of Carmen, "I would say yes. But you're not, so go away."

The other man rolled his eyes (while still managing to squint – House wondered how he did that) before plopping down in the chair beside House. Setting his coffee cup down – an extra hot cappuccino were the items checked off on the to-go cup – he then swung his left leg up, resting his boot-clad foot on the table before pulling out the magazine he had tucked under his arm. House grinned and let out a small laugh when he saw it was the same one as his own. The stranger allowed a grin to briefly settle on his face before flipping the magazine open. House told him the page number of the Carmen interview and the other man grunted his thanks while House returned to his own magazine.

The two men sat in a silence broken first by the other man's cell phone (his name was Sawyer) before House's phone followed suit. It was Cameron – the test results for their newest patient were in. He closed his magazine and hoisted himself up from his chair with the aid of his cane.

"Nice ignoring you," he said to Sawyer as he dropped his magazine on the table.

"You're not gonna take that?" Sawyer asked, lowering his magazine as he looked up at House.

"Nope. I believe in sharing the joy; I'm a regular philanthropist."

"Well if I'd known that, I would have saved myself six dollars and just waited for you to be done Gramps."

"Oh, you kids," House said with a smirk. "Always kidding around. Now get lost before I beat you with my cane." Sawyer said nothing, his expression clearly showing how much he thought of that suggestion before returning to his magazine.

House shrugged his shoulders as if to say "What can you do?" to the occupants of the table who had chosen the moment of House's last comment to stop their conversation. Ignoring their disapproving glares he hurried out the door and to his motorcycle.

He had a bet with Foreman to win.


	3. Chapter 3

**House – Lost Connections**

**Disclaimer: **Guess what? I _still_ don't owe any of the characters, etc. related to _House _or _Lost_ other than these story ideas and any characters of my own design. But I'm okay with that.

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Insomnia, a malfunctioning air conditioner and a general boredom with his own surroundings drove Greg House out of his townhouse and to the bar two blocks east of his place late Friday night.

"Dude, been awhile," said the bartender by way of a greeting as he helped a particularly inebriated man into a cab. House said nothing, giving the burly younger man a curt nod as he yanked the door open and stepped inside. Looking around the room he found things hadn't changed much since he had last been here – from what he could remember, anyway. His gaze settled on the far corner of the room. Though they did get a new piano.

"Go ahead," the bartender – Mike – offered, resuming his position behind the bar. "Drinks are on the house if you promise not to sing." House smirked, asking for a large glass of water with extra ice then adding a beer to his order before hobbling over to the instrument. He warmed up with a few scales, not minding when no one looked his way as he segued into the opening bars of Fats Waller's _Ain't Misbehavin'_.

"What? No _Piano Man_?" asked the woman seated at one of the nearby tables, a grin pulling at the corners of her mouth as she peeled part of the label off her beer bottle.

"Too predictable," House said, turning his gaze back to the gleaming keys. It was a very new piano. He wondered what happened to the beat-up Yamaha.

"You play here often?" The woman was intent on having a conversation. House shook his head, switching over to a hybrid of _I Got You, Babe_ and _It Ain't Me, Babe_. Maybe the brunette would get the hint.

"I, I like that."

Crap – she didn't.

Sighing, House abruptly stopped playing before pushing himself up from his seat, grabbing his beer, and hobbling over to the woman's table. "What do you want?" he asked once he had sat down. "You're obviously a newcomer or else you would know people like to come here in order to be left _alone_. Crazy, I know." He took a swig of his beer before setting the bottle down.

"Yeah, it is," the woman said. "My name's Kate," she added, only glancing up at House for a brief second before returning her attention to her beer bottle, now almost completely free of the label.

House found himself offering up his first name before he fully realized his mouth was moving. How many Vicodin had he taken before he left? Kate said it was nice to meet him and House asked her if she was from Canada.

"What?" she said, her eyes widening slightly.

"You're alarmingly polite," House explained. He squinted at her, looking for any other signs of unease. "A friend of mine went to McGill and has been a serial nice guy ever since."

Kate grinned. "Do you take requests?" she asked. The earlier discomfort in her greenish eyes had been replaced with a gaze at once playful, uncertain, and sad.

House shrugged his shoulders, twirling his now-empty beer bottle between two fingers. "Depends."

"On what?"

"If I think the song sucks or not."

"_The End of the World_."

"It is? Really?" House looked at his watch, shook his wrist, then held the timepiece up to his ear. Okay he had taken too many pills, even for him. He was flirting with a woman he had just met in a bar while relatively sober.

"No, the song – Skeeter Davis classic," Kate said, interrupting House's mental pill counting. "It is, was . . . could you play it?"

House pretended to contemplate her request for a few moments before nodding his head. Planting his left hand firmly on the edge of the table, he pushed himself up and made his way back over the piano bench. "If I get lost in the hokey-ness of the song," he said as he began to play, "call Wilson. He's number two on my speed dial."

Kate gave him a half-smile and by the time the song was over, she was gone.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: **Sorry it has been awhile since the last update. Other stories have been bouncing around in my head, distracting me. ;-)

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _House _or _Lost,_ but I do own this story idea and the characters I have made up. I hope you enjoy the story all the same. :-)

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"Dr. House is signing in at 10:20." Snatching a file from the small pile on the reception desk, House flipped it open as he made his way to the waiting area of the clinic. He quickly found the patient's name on the form – Shannon Rutherford – and called out for her to follow him to exam room two. He didn't wait to see who responded before turning around and making his way there. _It' s not like she can't catch up_, he thought with a quick scowl as he pushed open the door to the exam room.

Laying his cane down on the counter top, House made his way over to the wheeled stool, opening the file once more as it rested on his lap. "Nausea, trouble sleeping, frequent . . ." House's voice trailed off as two very shapely legs came into his field of vision. He quietly followed them upward, stopping when his gaze settled on a pair of ice-blue eyes. The young woman's expression tried to feign indifference, but House knew his leering stare was one she had seen a few too many times. Shaking his head slightly, he turned his attention back to the file, reading the rest of information on the form the young blond had filled out as she settled herself on the exam table.

"You're pregnant," he said without preamble, closing her file.

"No, I'm not," the woman stated emphatically. House only looked at her, one eyebrow cocked in disbelief.

"Well I was _hoping_ we could save a rabbit today to get PETA off our backs, but if you insist . . ." He pushed the stool back to the counter, snapping on a pair of latex gloves before retrieving a syringe from the appropriate drawer. Ripping off the protective wrapping, House pulled the cap off the needle with his teeth as he motioned for the patient to roll up her shirt sleeve.

She sat on the exam table, hands in her lap, unmoving.

"Well?" House asked with a wave of the needle.

"Well what?" the woman bit out. "I'm _not_ pregnant. My father died, his . . . wife cut me out of what was rightfully mine and my brother is a spineless jerk. I'm thinking it could be stress-related." She crossed her arms in front of her, an expression which almost screamed she knew it all settling comfortably on her face while not quite reaching her eyes.

House tossed the syringe into the nearby trash receptacle. "Look," he said as he took off the gloves, "you obviously knew what was going on before you came in here. So why come to a walk-in clinic? Besides hoping to score a quick prescription, I mean." As he spoke, he caught sight of the time on the clock behind her. "Wait on answering that," he added, pulling his portable TV out of the breast pocket of his jacket. "Anna's supposed to catch Robert and Holly today." He slid the TV's antenna up as he clicked it on.

"You're cutting my appointment short for _General Hospital_?"

"Duh. Didn't you hear me?" House said as he set the TV up on the table beside the patient.

"Look," the blond added, "everyone knows Anna doesn't really --"

"Did I _say_ you could talk? Now either shut up or get lost." He turned his attention back to the small screen, adjusting the volume slightly.

"Fine," huffed the woman. House caught her shifting her position from the corner of his eye. He bit back a grin as she settled in to watch the show.

_This_, House decided, _is better than baseball._

During a commercial break, he handed the woman a prescription for an antidepressant along with the phone number of the therapist Cuddy was trying to strong-arm him into seeing. The woman softly offered her thanks as she tucked the paper into her purse.


End file.
